


(To Be Forgiven) We Must First Believe in Sin

by Arbryna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Forbidden Love, Heartbreak, Pre-Canon, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gamlen wasn't always a bitter wretch--but having to give up the first woman you ever loved will do that to a man. Gamlen and Leandra's relationship through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Marked as underage because _technically_ it is, depending on where you live. All sexual acts are depicted with characters aged 15 or older.

We are given to a god to put our faith therein  
But to be forgiven, we must first believe in sin  
  
 _~ Jewel, "Innocence Maintained"_

* * *

  
  
Father doesn't yell. He's a busy man, and impatient, but he never yells. His is a quiet, composed sort of anger.

At eight years old, Leandra hasn't done very many things to make him cross. She's always been the picture of a dutiful daughter, taking quickly to her lessons and to the finery and etiquette expected of a daughter of the house Amell. When she makes a misstep, as children inevitably do, Father greets her with calm disappointment, scrutinizing her as he speaks to ensure that she knows exactly what she did wrong. He smiles when he's done, plants a kiss in her auburn hair and sends her off with the stern direction to do better next time.

It's Gamlen who gets into trouble, more often than not. The burdens of nobility are second nature to Leandra, but Gamlen can't quite wrap his little head around them. He'd rather chase pigeons in the courtyard or sneak into Lowtown to watch wallop matches than sit inside and learn the names of all the noble families in Kirkwall and what their crests are.

Of course, he's only seven. Leandra doesn't think it's that big of a deal when he comes home dragging a large piece of driftwood, but Father takes a different view.

"It's junk. Filthy junk, at that. Where in the world did you find this?"

Leandra stops at the top of the stairs when she hears the cold disdain in Father's voice. He towers over Gamlen, his polished finery a stark contrast to Gamlen's untucked shirt and dirt-stained trousers. The driftwood lies on the carpet between them.

Peering up through messy chestnut hair, Gamlen mumbles something that sounds like "docks". Leandra can see the back of Father's vest bunch as he tenses his arms and shoulders.

"That's no place for a boy of your status," Father sneers. "What would the Threnholds say if word got out that an Amell was out wandering the docks like some filthy sailor's bastard?"

Gamlen shrugs, his gaze on the floor. "I dunno."

"Without a guard, no less," Father continues, uninterested in Gamlen's responses. "You could have been kidnapped. Not that you'd be worth all that high of a ransom. Can you _never_ do what you're told?"

"M'sorry." There's a growing thickness in Gamlen's voice, and Leandra knows that he'll be crying before long. She wants to go downstairs and hug him, reassure him, but it will only make Father angrier.

"Sorry," Father huffs. He looks down at Gamlen's prize; for a moment it looks as though he might kick it, then decides against risking damage to his boots. "What did you think you were going to do with this rubbish anyhow?"

Gamlen mumbles something in response, too quiet to be understood.

"Speak up, boy!" Father's voice is sharp, and Gamlen flinches a little at the sound of it.

"I was gonna make a wallop mallet," he admits sullenly.

"What in Andraste's name is a _wallop mallet_?"

"It's for a game." Gamlen dares to look up, and there's a sparkle of brightness in his otherwise dejected expression. "Wallop. The boys in Lowtown said I could play, but only if I had my own mallet."

"A game," Father sneers. "In Lowtown."

"It's really fun!"

"You are an Amell, Gamlen. There are more important things than _fun_."

Gamlen hangs his head again. "Yes, Father."

"I'll have Benard dispose of this garbage," Father sighs. "Go and get yourself cleaned up, boy. You're in no fit state to be seen, not even by your tutors."

Leandra passes her brother on the stairs, meeting his red-rimmed eyes with a sympathetic smile. He trudges on past her to his bedroom while she lingers halfway down, her hand twitching nervously on the banister. The stair creaks under her slippered feet, and Father whirls around.

"What did I just tell you—" he halts abruptly when his eyes land on his daughter. "Oh, Leandra."

"Hello, Father," Leandra says sweetly, making her way down the last of the stairs.

"You're a refreshing sight, child." Father opens his arms, and Leandra rushes into them, resting her cheek against the soft Orlesian silk of his vest. His large palms are warm on her back. "Moreso after dealing with your brother."

"What did he do now?" Leandra asks, as though she didn't just hear the entire exchange. That's one of the less formal lessons she's learned: everyone eavesdrops, but it's simply unseemly to admit to it.

Father sighs and strokes Leandra's hair. "Does it even matter? The boy can't stay out of trouble. I'm positively drowning in work for this month's gala, and now I've got to find Benard to get this filthy refuse out of the house."

Leandra pulls away just far enough to tilt her head up and meet Father's grey eyes. "I can find Benard for you, Father. You've got so much else to do."

"You're such a good girl, Leandra." Father squeezes her tighter before holding her out at arms' length. "I want you to keep a closer eye on your brother. There is much he could stand to learn from you."

"Yes, Father." Her cheeks flush with pride, even as a tiny sliver of guilt gnaws at her chest. He wouldn't be so happy with her if he knew her plan, but she's also learned that there are some things Mother and Father don't have to know.

She finds Benard, as promised. The elf has been a servant of the Amells since before Leandra was born, and he's always had a soft spot for her. It doesn't take much to convince him to drag the driftwood down into the wine cellar instead of tossing it outside on the streets.

Gamlen is sullen and pouting when she finds him in his bedroom, but he gladly follows her down into the cellar—they've always been close, and she's pretty sure he would follow her anywhere she asked.

His eyes light up when she opens the door to the small, hidden room in the wine cellar. He rushes to kneel before the driftwood, running his little hands over it in awe. After a moment, he turns to flash her a grin full of joy and crooked teeth.

"I thought Father was going to throw it out."

Leandra smiles. "I told Benard to bring it here instead. I thought we could work on it together."

"But you don't know anything about wallop," Gamlen says with a confused frown.

"I know about other things." Leandra rolls her eyes, moving over to squat next to her brother. She won't kneel or sit; Mother wouldn't be happy to see dirt on her dress. "And you can teach me about wallop. It sounds like a lot of fun."

"It is!" Gamlen confirms, nodding vigorously. Then he sobers. "But you'll get in trouble."

Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Leandra smooths her hands over the wrinkles in her skirt. "Only if Mother and Father find out," she says, feeling vaguely guilty. "And they never come down here. Only the servants do, and even they don't come this far in."

Gamlen catches her off-guard with a hug, knocking her to the ground with his weight. "I love you, Sister."

"I love you too," Leandra replies, wrapping her arms around him. She'll have stains on her dress, but it's worth it to see her little brother so happy.


	2. Chapter 2

The look they give him is wary, suspicious—like he's just asked for the key to the treasury, rather than twenty sodding silver. It's such a paltry sum they wouldn't even notice it missing.

"What do you need it for?" Father asks gruffly, looking back down at his paperwork. 

Gamlen hesitates. "There's a…book I want to get." 

Mother pauses in her embroidery and looks up at him, blue eyes sparkling with guarded hope. It's the first time in his twelve years of life that he's shown any interest in reading. 

"We have plenty of books in the library," Father says, unimpressed. His eyes don't even leave the desk. 

"This is a new one." Gamlen's hands fumble with his pockets. "About, um, archery." 

"Interested in archery, are you?" Father's eyes are cold steel, probing Gamlen's face for the truth. His lips press into a tight scowl. "Don't lie to me, boy. What is it really for?" 

Gamlen looks down at the carpet, trying to escape the chill of Father's gaze. "Awalloptournament," he mumbles. 

"Speak up, dear," Mother says, almost kindly. "And take your hands out of your pockets." 

He takes a deep breath, clenches his hands into fists at his sides. "A wallop tournament," he repeats, slower and clearer. He recognizes the sudden tightness in Father's shoulders and rushes on. "There's an entry fee, but the winner gets two sovereigns, and I _know_ I can win. I'm really good!" 

"That blighted _game_." Father spits the word out, curls his lip like it's left a foul taste in his mouth. His paperwork is abandoned for the moment; he turns in his chair to face Gamlen. A spark of anger flashes in his eyes. "I've told you time and time again, Gamlen, that it is unacceptable for an Amell to be cavorting about with the scum in Lowtown. Now you ask me not only to support this misguided hobby, but to finance it as well?" 

"It's only twenty silver," Gamlen retorts, his fingernails digging into his palms. "You give Leandra money all the time for things." 

"Leandra spends her money wisely," Father says. Father's eyes drag over Gamlen's half-untucked shirt, the gaping unbuttoned vest, the scuffed boots. His trousers are stained with dirt, and there's a small tear in one knee. "And she comports herself like a proper noble child should. If you were to put in the slightest effort to look or act presentable, you might find yourself rewarded as well." 

Anger burns at Gamlen's gut. He dresses himself properly every morning; it's not his fault that he can't bear to sit around studying all day. The other kids in Hightown are boring, and Lowtown is a dirty place. It's not like they don't have the coin for washing and mending. 

"You mean if I sit down and shut up and never have any fun," Gamlen snaps back, louder than intended. His arms are shaking, they're so tense. 

"Don't raise your voice to me, boy." Father looks calm and composed, as always, but the steely glint in his eyes is a dire warning. 

"Why?" Gamlen presses, almost shouting now. Blood is rushing in his ears, adrenaline racing through his body, and he's too angry to stop now. "Because it wouldn't be _proper_? Does the fact that I actually have feelings embarrass you, Father?" 

He doesn't remember moving, but now he's standing right in front of Father, his pulse pounding in his clenched fists. That bloody arrogant expression is on Father's face, the one that he seems to reserve for Gamlen alone—like he's disappointed and ashamed all at once, with an impatient edge that says there are far more important things he should be doing right now. Gamlen hates that expression, and for the first time, he thinks of how satisfying it might be to knock it right off of his face. 

"Think carefully, Gamlen," Father warns before Gamlen can raise his fist even an inch. "If you ever raise a hand to me, you'll be using it to beg for alms at the Chantry before you can blink." 

Gamlen takes a deep, forceful breath, grinds his teeth, opens and closes his fists. As much as he hates it here, he would hate sleeping on the street even more. Mother sits in her chair, watching anxiously; she at least cares about Gamlen a little, but he doesn't think she would interfere if Father disowned him—and he doesn't doubt for a second that Father would do it.

As much as he wants to strike his father, Gamlen whirls around instead, slamming the door to the study as he leaves. It echoes down the hallway, follows him as he storms toward the cellar. 

He should have just taken Meeran's advice, and hustled the money from some other Hightown brat—or maybe lifted it from that ancient lacemaker in the market. The old bitch is too blind and deaf to notice, anyway. He was an idiot to think Father would give him anything. 

In his haste he forgot to grab a lamp, but it's no matter; the way to the secret room in the cellar is ingrained in him by now, even in the dark, and he swings the door open with one last great burst of anger. It bounces hard against the wall, then swings shut again with the remainder of his force. Gamlen drops down onto the pile of straw-filled sacks he and Leandra have put together over the years and glares into the darkness.

***

Gamlen is still fuming when Leandra finds him there half an hour later. He hears the door creak open, sees a small halo of light slip in and flood the room. The scowl remains on his lips, his gaze fixed stubbornly ahead of him as Leandra sets the lamp down on the barrel they use as a table, pulls a spare linen from under her arm to lay out next to him. It's not until she sits carefully down on it, ever mindful of her gown, that he finally looks over at her. From the look on her face, she knows about his fight with Father.

"How are you doing?" There's no judgment in her tone; it's one of his favorite things about her. 

"I'm lower than the shit on a beggar's boot, if you ask Father," Gamlen says moodily. There's a piece of straw sticking out between the weave of the burlap; he picks it free, flings it out at the floor. "Andraste's tits, it's like I can't do anything right." 

Leandra sighs and slips her hand into his, lacing their fingers together. "You know what he wants of you."

His palm feels clammy against his sister's, awkward in a way that's new and strange. He tries to ignore it; a lot of stuff has been changing about him lately, physically, and he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask any of the older boys about it. Maker knows he can't talk to Father. 

"Why should I care?" Gamlen spits, his hand clenching tightly around Leandra's. "He doesn't give a nug's blind ass about what _I_ want."

She chuckles—against her better judgment, Gamlen is sure. Her thumb strokes gently along his index finger. "Your friends have certainly taught you some colorful language."

He shrugs, glares at the opposite wall. "At least they like me for who I am." 

At least, he thinks they do. He's pretty sure they would tell him if they didn't; Meeran and the other boys aren't exactly subtle. 

Leandra's hand squeezes, then retracts. Gamlen's scowl deepens as the cool air hits his sweaty palm. He can't decide if he's relieved that she took her hand back, or disappointed—or even what either one would mean. His stomach feels strangely warm and anxious.

A moment later, Leandra's hand is back—but this time, it's holding out a small pouch. Gamlen glances wide-eyed at his sister as he takes it, feeling the heavy weight of coin through the silk. He doesn't need to open it to know that it contains enough to pay his way into the tournament. 

"Mother wants me to get something nice for the ball next week," Leandra explains. "I was going to spend it on this comb I saw at the market, but I think you could use it more."

Gamlen holds the pouch tightly in his fist, feeling the promise it contains. His anger is a thing of the past, quickly replaced by a giddy sort of hope. Maybe if he comes home with a trophy, Father will take him seriously. 

He frowns. "Won't you be in trouble when you don't have anything to show Mother?" 

Leandra shakes her head, smiles. "I've got so many trinkets and jewels even I can't keep track of them all. I'll just pull out something I haven't worn in a while. Mother won't even notice." 

It's really his. He's really going to do this—if he gets his fee in on time. "I've got to go tell Meeran—I've got to sign up before the roster's full!" 

Before he even realizes it he's on his feet, still clutching the pouch of coins, ready to head out the door. He pauses, looks back; Leandra is just sitting there, prim as ever with her hands folded on her lap and a fond smile on her lips. Suddenly Gamlen feels terribly ungrateful. He shoves the coin back into his pocket, goes back to her and offers his hand to help her to her feet. He may be hopeless with most of his lessons, but this small chivalry isn't too much of a chore to remember—at least, when he cares enough to.

Leandra's smile broadens as she takes his hand and tilts her head politely in response. It's so effortless, the way she does it—the nobility thing. She allows him to pull her to her feet, smooths her skirt down, stands with a comfortably regal posture that Gamlen could never match. 

His sister is pretty sodding close to perfect. 

"Thank you," Gamlen says sincerely. He pulls Leandra into a tight hug. "I'll find some way to pay you back, I promise." 

"Just be happy, Gamlen," Leandra replies, her cheek brushing against Gamlen's as she speaks. "That's all I want." 

They've hugged before, lots of times, but Gamlen's never been this oddly _aware_ of everything. Leandra's back is warm through the fabric of her dress, her chest presses against his, and the air suddenly feels thick. His heart feels like it's pounding in his throat, and the hot, tight feeling in his stomach starts to spread lower. 

_No,_ Gamlen thinks, horrified. _Not now. Not here!_

His body does not comply. He tries to pull out of the hug, to move away before she notices, but the uneasy look on her face says she had to have felt it. He covers himself with his hands and feels his cheeks flush hot. 

Leandra breaks the silence first, delicately clearing her throat. "You should go get yourself signed up." 

Gamlen nods, not quite meeting her eyes. "Yeah, I'll—I'll go do that."

He turns and practically runs out the door. Maybe while he's down in Lowtown, he can finally ask the older boys some of those questions he's been having.

***

They don't talk about it—it's too awkward, too embarrassing. It's like the whole afternoon never happened, except that Gamlen is in a far brighter mood over the next couple of days.

The evening of the ball, Leandra finds a small bundle wrapped in dingy cloth on her vanity table. She unwraps it to find a jeweled comb, far finer than the one she had been considering. A smile pulls at her lips as she holds it up to her head, admiring the way the sapphires bring out the blue in her eyes, the way the tiny diamonds sparkle in her auburn hair. 

There's no note, but she doesn't need one—she knows who it's from, just as well as she knows that Gamlen didn't pay a single copper for it. She'll have to talk to him again about stealing. 

She really should make him return the gift—but then Father would find out, she reasons, and they might punish Gamlen anyway. It's probably better to keep quiet about it. 

And it really is _very_ lovely.


	3. Chapter 3

The market is always loud, chaotic, full of people; it's a wonder Leandra hears it at all. But the the voice is familiar, a loud jubilant cry that she so seldom hears at home. Mother is deep in discussion with the Comtesse de Launcet, and though Leandra knows she should be paying attention, she can't help but take a couple of discreet steps back to peer down the staircase to Lowtown.

Gamlen is holding his wallop mallet over his head, grinning as some of the other boys clap him on the back. There is still a good-sized line of competitors, but it's clear he's a good pick to take the whole tournament. Leandra feels a warm flush of pride; as much as he likes to brood about never doing anything right, he's definitely good at this. 

She's grateful that Mother was amenable to the idea of shopping today, so that she can catch a glimpse of the game's takeover of the main Lowtown courtyard. It's not often she gets to slip away to see her brother play. 

As Gamlen returns to the center of the courtyard, shaking his arms out and preparing for his next match, Mother's resigned sigh sounds in Leandra's ear. "I do wish you could convince your brother to give that up." 

"It makes him happy." Leandra doesn't dare argue too strongly with her mother, but she can't resist trying to prod just a little bit. "I wish you and Father could at least try to understand that." 

"Hmph." Mother gives her head a little shake. "If wishes were poppy, we'd all be dreaming. Some things are more important than being happy, Leandra." 

Leandra looks down to disguise the slight roll of her eyes. "Yes, Mother."

"Oh, well of course _you_ know," Mother says, affection warming her tone as she clasps Leandra's hand. "You're such a good girl." 

" _Oui_ , she is quite the prize," the Comtesse chimes in. Her expensive Orlesian perfume reaches Leandra before the woman herself. "She has turned out very well—and growing up so fast, too! Before you know it she will be ready for marriage and a family of her own." 

Gamlen's game fades from Leandra's mind as she fights the urge to frown. Mother has been talking of marriage more and more of late. "I've got a few years yet," she says politely, forcing a small smile to her lips. 

"Oh, nonsense, dear," Mother says, her eyes shrewd as she smiles sweetly at the Comtesse. "You're nearly sixteen years old. I was younger than that when I was betrothed to your father." 

_But you're not me,_ Leandra wants to retort. She doesn't think Mother would take it well, though, so she keeps smiling instead, bites down on the inside of her cheek. 

Blonde ringlets bounce atop the Comtesse's head as she gives it a little shake. "Oh, Guillaume is simply thrilled about the prospect. I think sometimes that he is more taken by the idea of a grand wedding than his bride will be." 

"I doubt that," Mother replies. "A fine lad such as that, why any woman should be ecstatic to have such a match. Don't you think so, Leandra?" 

Leandra's smile tightens around the edges, but she doesn't let it falter. She's been taught well. "Of course, Mother." 

Mother is caught up in her own machinations, and doesn't seem to notice Leandra's apprehension—or if she does, she pays it no heed. The conversation drifts to some new juicy bit of gossip, and Leandra finds herself glancing back toward the stairs down into Lowtown. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if she might be happier taking a page from Gamlen's book; surely if she cared less for pleasing her parents, it would be easier to think of pursuing her own happiness. She knows it's hopelessly naive and romantic, but she'd like to think that one day she might marry for love, rather than her family's political advantage.

It's a silly thought.

***

She waits for him that evening, in their hidden place. Gamlen has been in other wallop tournaments before, but today was apparently a bigger deal than the others. He's certainly been going on about it enough. She still feels a small twinge of guilt that she wasn't able to watch the whole thing—to lend him her support from the sidelines, rather than catching glimpses from far above him.

Their parents won't celebrate it, so Leandra convinced one of the cooks to help her bake a small cake for him. It's a bit more rushed than she would have liked—not all of the cooks are sympathetic, particularly with the torment Gamlen has subjected them to over the years, so it had to be done quickly and discreetly—but she doesn't think he'll mind. 

He bursts into the room not long after she arrives, dragging his mallet behind him. A grin spreads wide across his face as he meets her eyes. "I did it!" His voice breaks on the words, but he doesn't seem as self-conscious about it as he has been—he's too giddy. "I won the whole thing!" 

Leandra beams at him, plucks the cover off of the cake and sets it aside. "I didn't doubt you for a minute." 

Gamlen's eyes light up even brighter as they trace over the iced words—"Congratulations Gamlen"—and the small, simple outline of a wallop mallet. The smile on his lips threatens to split his face open as he sweeps Leandra up into a fierce hug. His shirt is still damp with sweat, his neck slick with it, but she wraps her arms around him anyway. His happiness is an infectious sort, and she can't be bothered with her usual hangups at the moment. 

"I couldn't have done it without you," Gamlen murmurs, holding her tight. His hands settle flat against her back; they seem to be growing larger every day, and they almost burn through the fabric of her dress. 

"Please," Leandra scoffs, rubbing at the lean muscle of his back. "You're the one who's put in all the hours of practice. I'm just proud to say that my brother is officially the best wallop player in Kirkwall." 

His head tilts against her shoulder, the tip of his nose brushing against her throat; she feels a strange heat flush her cheeks. Leandra tightens her arms around him once before releasing, stepping back. He's slower to let go, the muscles in his forearms tensing against her waist. She rests her hands awkwardly against his shoulders, leans in to press a kiss into his cheek.

She doesn't notice his head turn at the last minute, doesn't realize until her lips don't land on the sweaty skin she expected. Leandra freezes at the feel of her brother's lips sliding against hers. 

The kiss is clumsy and still, and lingers too long to be simple or chaste. His hands are heavy against the small of her back, his chest warm and sturdy where her own presses against it with each quick, fluttering breath. They could be any pair of young lovers in any of the books Leandra reads in secret when her parents aren't around, sharing a tentative, inexperienced first kiss.

They could be—but they're not. They can't. This—this is wrong. Leandra sucks in a sharp breath through her nose and pushes at his shoulders. They separate, her eyes staring wide at him while his shoot to the ground. Even in the dim lamplight, she can see the color flooding his cheeks. 

"Gamlen—"

"Sorry," Gamlen says quickly. His fists clench at his sides as he looks up at her, his expression a chaos of embarrassment, shame, penitence. His brow tightens, and Leandra can practically hear him struggling to find words.

"It's all right," Leandra replies, her voice soft and shaking. "It was just an accident." 

His gaze drops away from hers as he nods, silently confirming the lie. It was no accident—she saw the guilt in his eyes as they pulled apart, felt his desire quivering against her lips. 

A mistake, that's what it was. A spur-of-the-moment, ill-conceived mistake. One that won't— _can't_ —happen again. 

Even if a small, hidden part of her wishes it would.


	4. Chapter 4

Leandra stares, almost unbelieving, at Gamlen's prize. The wood—it looks like a large tree root—is at least as tall as Gamlen, thick and painted bright red with white swirling patterns. It's all too obvious where it came from. 

"You shouldn't have taken that," she chides. "That tree is sacred to the elves." 

Gamlen keeps his back turned as he shrugs, still examining his acquisition. "Who cares? They're just elves. Their beliefs are bullshit anyway." 

"Gamlen!"

"What?" He turns around, flashes her a grin. "Are you saying I'm wrong?"

"No, of course not." Leandra frowns. She knows what the Chantry teaches, and has felt it in her heart to be true. "But surely the Maker wouldn't approve of desecrating their beliefs simply to prove you can." 

He doesn't try to argue that the vhenadahl is the best wood around, or try to justify his actions with some barely feasible excuse. He just shrugs again, his grin melting into an almost-apologetic smirk—all but confirming Leandra's suspicion that this was some sort of dare his friends put him up to. 

"Well it's already done," Gamlen reasons, turning back to the bough and pulling out his belt knife to trim at some of its edges. "They'd still be pissed off if I returned it. Might as well make use of it." 

Leandra sighs. He's hopeless. At least there's no real chance of reprisal from the alienage elves. She steps closer, in front of the makeshift work bench cobbled together from a couple of barrels and a door long ago torn from its hinges. She keeps a good foot or so between them; it's been more than six months since their ill-advised kiss, but she hasn't been able to forget it. 

"It is a good cut of lumber," she admits grudgingly. 

"Better than the soggy driftwood I dragged in here all those years ago. And it's about time I had a new mallet." Gamlen pauses, sets his knife down on the table beside the bough. He breathes in, then looks over at her. "I was hoping you'd help me make this one, too." 

There's something in his eyes, something dangerously hopeful. Something that tells Leandra there's more to this than what he's asking. "I doubt you need my help," she says with a soft, nervous laugh. "You know more about all this than I do by now." 

Gamlen moves sideways toward her, his fingers brushing at the small of her back. "I would still enjoy your company." 

Leandra stiffens, her chest tightening as though all the air has been sucked from the room. "Gamlen—" 

He presses closer, his fingers drifting to her hip as the warmth of his chest pushes against the back of her shoulder. His breath is heavy and quick against her cheek. "I know you feel it too, Leandra." 

She's tried not to, honestly she has. She's done everything in her power to push the memory of that day out of her mind—to forget about the taste of his breath, his lips and hands and body all warm against her. It fills her with shame just to think of it, even as her stomach flips and flutters at what he's suggesting.

"The Chant condemns it," she says shakily, shutting her eyes as she prays for the strength to resist this. "We are brother and sister. We aren't meant to know one another in…in that way. A child born of such a union would be an affront to the Maker." 

Then his chest is flush with her back, both of his hands trembling against her corseted waist. Soft, moist lips press gently just under her ear. "Well, we don't have to do _that_ ," he murmurs into her skin, almost pleading. "There are a lot of other things we can do." 

Desire flares in Leandra's belly, hot and anxious, as he plants a sloppy line kisses down the line of her throat. His tongue flicks out to taste the dip in her collarbone, and a shiver tears through her body, pressing her back into him. Hot breath rushes across her skin as he lets out a quiet groan. His hips jerk into her backside, and she can feel him pressing hard against her.

"Gamlen," she gasps, turning her head to seek out his gaze. Whatever words she might have followed with are swallowed up as he claims her mouth, breathing in sharply as he sucks at her lips. 

Guilt rises dark and thick in Leandra's chest as she moans her surprise into her brother's mouth. It turns to a low whimper as his tongue pokes out, sliding clumsy and shy against her own. Heat flushes Leandra's chest, quickens her heart, steers her away from shame and toward something infinitely more dangerous.

When the kiss ends, it is Gamlen who pulls away, desire and uncertainty glimmering in his eyes. His hands shake where they frame her hips. Leandra's eyes drop to his mouth, to the wet sheen of his lips, the subtle promise of his tongue pressing behind his teeth. This is wrong. She should stop this. 

She can't stop this. Maker help her, she doesn't want to. Her chest heaves, her pulse jumps as she cups the sides of his face to pull him back in. His hands slide more firmly against her, stroking up her sides as her own fingers tangle in his short, messy hair. 

The edge of the table presses into her back as he tears his mouth away from hers, only to trail down the other side of her neck. He sucks tentatively at her flesh, and she clutches at his shoulders as electricity races through her blood to crackle and spark between her legs.

"You feel so good," Gamlen gasps into her skin. His hands never stop moving, exploring; his thumb brushes the underside of her breast and she lets out a sharp gasp. "I've wanted to touch you for so long." 

His hands drift down, sliding over her backside to pull her firmly against him. Leandra can feel him through the layers of clothing, pressing into her. A pressure makes itself known between her legs, throbbing with increasing urgency as he groans and drags his lips back up to hers. 

Where this is going, what they're doing, Leandra couldn't begin to guess. She never even kissed a boy before Gamlen. She only knows the bits she's read in those bawdy novels her mother doesn't know about, and their flowery language seems borderline ridiculous when faced with the reality of her brother's warm, solid body pressing against her. 

Gamlen is a little more sure than she is, or at least his body seems to know what to do. His hips grind into her, rubbing his hardness against her belly. He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers. 

"I've touched myself and pretended it was you," he admits, his breath hot on her lips. 

The image sears itself into her mind; she doesn't know the specifics, what movements he would make or how it all works, but she can picture his face all too easily, flushed and screwed up in pleasure. Almost of their own accord, her hands drift down his chest, trace over the soft muscles of his abdomen. Her fingers flutter uncertainly at his belt. 

"Y-you can touch it," he stammers, breathing heavily. "If you want." 

Leandra hesitates, swallowing hard as her eyes focus on the bulge in his trousers. She drags her fingertips along the length of it, gasps softly when it twitches beneath her touch. 

"Shit," Gamlen hisses, one hand flying from her hip to brace against the table. 

"Is-is that good?" Leandra asks shakily. She's afraid to speak above a whisper, as though speaking aloud would shatter whatever it is that's made doing this okay. 

"Maker, yes," he gasps. He tilts forward, rubbing more firmly against her fingers. She feels around for a better way to stroke him, to touch more of him, but she can't find a position for her hand that works through his clothes. 

Gamlen pushes slightly away from her and reaches for his laces, hastily tugging at the knot holding them together. Once his trousers are loosened, he slips a hand inside and pushes the front of them down as he frees himself. 

Her heart pounds in her throat, thumping against the back of her tongue. His manhood sways between them, hard and erect, filling his hand as he pulls his fist up its length. She closes her eyes as desire clutches at her chest. 

"You don't have to," he says, as soberly as he can manage. "If—if you don't want." 

Leandra opens her eyes, forces them to focus on her brother's face. His cheeks are flooded with pink, eyes dark and fluttering and earnest. As aroused as he obviously is, he's still thinking of her comfort. She leans up to kiss him again, reaches to replace his hand with her own. 

"Oh, Maker, Leandra," Gamlen gasps into her mouth, bracing himself against the table behind her with both hands. 

His pulse pounds beneath hard flesh, hot against her nervous, sweating palm. She tangles the fingers of her free hand in his hair again, kissing him clumsily as she starts to stroke. 

It's simpler than she would have thought, a rhythm her body seems just to know. His breath comes in quick, irregular bursts, his tongue poking clumsily into her mouth. The air grows thick as his hips jerk faster, tension building toward an unfamiliar goal. Her body winds tighter with every pass of her hand; though she is touching him, not the other way around, she feels herself growing frantic right along with him. 

"Shit." Gamlen pulls away from her when the intensity is reaching its peak, scrambles at the work table for a rag. Leandra watches, breathless, as his hand works and down his length at a frenzied pace. It's only moments before his fingers curl into the edge of the table, his head bowed and his whole body tense and shaking. A strangled groan tears from his throat, and he makes that face she imagined earlier, eyes screwed up tight and lips parted and quivering. It makes something clench in her stomach, or maybe lower. 

When his breathing evens out a bit Gamlen pushes away from the table again, turns to her as he wipes himself with the rag. "Mother complains enough about _dirt_ on your gown," he offers with with a panting smirk.

Leandra is frozen where she stands, torn between the horror at what she's just done and the desperate ache between her legs. She searches for something to say, but her throat is dry and tight. 

"Are you all right, Sister?" Gamlen asks, hastily tucking himself back into his trousers and moving back to her. His fingers stroke up her arms, and she gasps at the shivers it sends down her spine. The concern on his face melts into a knowing smile, and his voice drops to a rumbling whisper. "I can help you, too." 

She feels his hands drop back to her waist and start to hike up her skirts. This is wrong, she has to stop this, she can't let him—

But oh, his knee presses _right there_ , and she can't think beyond the sparks exploding behind her eyelids. His hand slips between her legs, sliding over the slick fabric of her smallclothes. It doesn't seem possible, that so much moisture could accumulate without her realizing. 

Gamlen dips his fingers beneath the fabric, and her hips jerk hard into him as one rough fingertip slides over her hardened nub. Leandra whimpers, curls her hands around the edge of the table. Gamlen's free hand comes down next to hers, bracing him as he leans in to press a kiss into her mouth.

"You're so beautiful," Gamlen murmurs as his fingers fumble over slippery flesh, feeling out a rhythm. 

Her brother's breathless awe tugs at Leandra's heart, and her eyes slide open to look at him. His cheeks are flushed and sweating, his eyes glowing with the same hopeful pride he displays when presenting her with a gift. At once she sees him, both the little boy he was and the man he's rapidly becoming, and her stomach lurches violently. 

This is her little brother; the boy she's known all of his life and most of her own. She's supposed to teach him, to protect him—to guide him _away_ from sin, not follow him toward it. Her teeth bite hard into her bottom lip, a desperate attempt to fight back the tears pressing hot against her tightly shut eyelids. 

He seems to interpret her expression as one of pleasure and increases his pace, dropping his head to her shoulder as his hand works between her legs. His breath comes quick and hot against her throat.

Arousal and shame twine together in Leandra's blood, choke up her throat and settle heavy and leaden in her gut. Her body is too far gone to turn back, and before she can even contemplate how to stop it, she finds herself hurtling over the edge of some unseen cliff. She presses a hand to her mouth to stifle her cry, but she can't hide the tears that squeeze out between her lashes. 

Gamlen's exhausted grin falls from his lips when he raises his eyes to see the wet trails on her cheeks. He pulls his hand away sharply, as though it was burned. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, panic sharpening his tone. 

Leandra's heart breaks just a little bit more; she shakes her head, pulls her arms tight around her ribs. "No," she says, her voice thick and tremulous. "But Gamlen, this—this was wrong. I should never have let you…it shouldn't have happened." 

She catches a glimpse of the wounded expression on his face as she turns to rush out of the room. She doesn't look back.


	5. Chapter 5

Leandra has always loved birthdays. The presents, the grand parties, the dresses and jewels that always seemed to sparkle more brightly than on any other night. Then, when all the guests had gone and her parents had retired for the evening, there was the private celebration, just her and Gamlen. They would sneak down to their hidden room together and stay up half the night, talking and laughing and eating leftover sweets Gamlen had looted from the kitchen. 

Of course, that was before. When things were simpler, and brothers were only just brothers and birthday parties didn't become surprise engagement parties. It's all burned into her mind—Father's pride, Mother's joy, Guillaume's haughty smile. The clattering of the door as Gamlen stormed out without a word. Her face aches from the facade of politely restrained happiness she's had to wear all evening. 

It's not a shock, not really. Mother has been hinting after it for years, and all the other nobles have talked about it like a forgone conclusion. Even before the announcement was made, her future was already slated to be tied to the future Comte de Launcet. 

If Leandra were any other girl, she might be happy about it. She _should_ be happy about it; Comtesse is a far more prestigious title than simply being just another noble's wife. She'll have power, influence—and attractive children, it would appear, although she's heard rumors of premature hair loss in the de Launcet men. 

Besides, it's not as though she could ever marry for love now. What man could love her, after what she's done? There must be something terribly broken in her, something corrupt, to inspire such perversion. She's fortunate to have an option like Guillaume, to have a life of stability and wealth all laid out for her. 

She tells herself that silently in the mirror, tries to make herself believe it. Her reflection is not convinced. 

It's early yet, far earlier than she's ever retired on her birthday before, but her shoulders ache with a weight beyond her years and there is nothing to stay up for tonight. She hasn't been alone with Gamlen in months, not since…

A ragged sigh passes through her lips as tears prick at her eyes. She misses her brother, misses the kinship and affection that always came so easily to them. She's always been able to talk to Gamlen about anything, but she can't talk to him about this—not when it's so obvious where he stands. 

She's tried to ignore it, the hurt and longing in eyes that now linger in places they never dared glance before, the way it twists her insides and flushes her cheeks as memories of that night replay in her head over and over again. She's beginning to think she's fighting a losing battle, and she's terrified of what losing might mean. 

The doorknob clicks softly, and Leandra stiffens in her chair. There's only one person in this house who wouldn't knock before entering her bedroom. 

Gamlen quietly slips inside, closing the door behind him. He looks contrite, anxious. "I'm sorry I ditched your party," he says, meeting her eyes briefly before looking away. 

"It's all right," Leandra replies with a weak shrug, looking everywhere but at him. "It wasn't much fun. I can't really blame you." 

He shuffles closer, and Leandra's heart jumps nervously. He's only putting a bundle on her vanity, however, and her chest loosens as he steps away again. She unwraps it with trembling fingers as he watches. 

Inside the napkin is a selection of sweets: ladyfingers and tarts and little cakes filled with jam. She presses her fingers to her lips as she tries to suppress the urge to cry. No matter what happens, no matter what else he might be, Gamlen is ever her little brother, and she aches with love for him. 

His arms are around her before a single tear can fall, a gentle hand guiding her head to rest against his stomach. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, stroking gently at her hair. "I didn't mean to make you cry." 

"It's not you," she replies, reassuring him out of reflex more than anything else. She keeps her hands folded carefully in her lap, but allows herself the luxury of turning her face into his shirt, breathing in his familiar scent. "Not really."

Gamlen tenses, and his hand stills in her hair. "It's him, isn't it? Guillaume." The name is spat, dark and bitter, in a tone he usually reserves for their father. 

She nods, fights the urge to stand and coil her arms around her brother's neck. "I don't want to marry him." 

"I wish I could fix it," he says fiercely. His fingers slide a lock of hair behind her ear, trail down the side of her neck. "I wish I could marry you instead." 

Leandra pulls away with a start, stunned both by his words and the passion and sincerity with which he says them. She shifts in her chair, turning away from him. "You shouldn't say things like that, Gamlen." 

"Why not? It's true." Gamlen follows her around, dropping to his knees before her. His hands capture her own, squeezing to emphasize his words. "I would be a good husband to you. I would make you happy." 

She dares to glance up at him, and her heart breaks at the desperate longing etched into his features. Her hands tighten around his, and she tries to keep her voice steady. "You know that's not possible." 

The intensity in Gamlen's eyes dims a little; he does know. He drops his head into her lap, presses a kiss into the back of each of her hands. "If wishes were poppy, we'd all be dreaming, right?" 

A laugh bubbles up in Leandra's chest, breaking as it passes her lips. She tugs one hand free and runs it through his hair. It's not fair, that she could find a man who loves her this much only for him to be the one man she cannot be with. If only she didn't feel this way, if only he wasn't her brother…

If wishes were poppy. Her fingers tighten in his hair as she shuts her eyes against another wave of tears. She can feel his head tilting in her lap, feel his eyes caressing her face. "I can still do other things for you," he offers nervously, his hands slipping free of hers to settle against the outside of her thighs. "I can make you feel good."

Heat sparks to life between her legs, sharp and urgent, melting the hard edges of guilt and shame pricking at her chest. _No,_ she wants to say. _We can't. We shouldn't. It's wrong._ She tightens her fingers in his hair and parts her lips, but all that comes out is his name, a strangled breath barely audible over the pounding of her heart. 

His fingers pluck clumsily at the knot of her robe. "Tell me to stop," he says, "and I will. Just tell me you don't want this." 

Linen brushes against her calves as Gamlen drags her shift up. He moves slowly, deliberately, giving her ample time to respond. To put a stop to this. 

She can't. Maker forgive her, she's starting to question why she should. If this is all she is to know of love, if she is to be sentenced to spend a lifetime in a marriage of convenience with no affection, no attraction, no _passion_ —then why shouldn't she be allowed this indulgence now? 

They can be careful, they can be discreet…and when the time comes for her to marry, she will at least have known what it feels like to be touched out of love—to have a lover dedicate himself to _her_ pleasure first and foremost. The memory will see her through her wedding night, and all the nights that follow. 

Cool air brushes her legs as Gamlen pushes her shift up to her waist. He rests his hands on the top of her thighs, presses a gentle kiss into each knee, and waits. 

Leandra opens her eyes, looks down at her brother's face. Guilt rises in her throat, and she forcibly swallows it back down. She can't erase the shame in what they're doing, but she can try to push it from her mind, at least for a little while. 

There's a question in his gaze, a hesitation. She wants to answer it, but the words won't come. Her throat is thick with arousal and emotion and _want_ , and all she can do is meet his eyes and nod, almost imperceptibly. Her fingers fall from his hair to curl around the edges of her chair, and when his hands slide between her thighs, she lets them fall open. 

Desire flashes hot in his eyes before they flick away from hers to follow the path of his hands. His fingertips brush along the edges of her smallclothes, lightly teasing, before they slip under the waistband and tug. She lifts her hips as he slides the fabric down her legs, gasps as cool air collides with damp flesh. 

Gamlen's lips are hot against the inside of one thigh, the barely-there peach fuzz on his cheeks tickling her skin. Leandra gasps as his thumb brushes against her curls, dips into them to slip along slick flesh. There's an unbearable clenching between her legs, an urgent need that she can scarcely name, and she bites down on her lip, tightens her grip on the chair. 

He doesn't touch her, though, not the way she wants, not the way she thinks he's going to. His hand lays flat against her thigh, and the other moves up to join it, and she's not sure what he's doing until he surges forward, until she feels the hot slick of his tongue moving against her. 

Maker, she can't watch this. Her eyes slam shut, her head digs into the back of her chair. Gamlen's hands idly caress her thighs as he takes her in his mouth, teeth scraping and tongue flicking and and then _suction_. He's probably just feeling his way around like last time, trying things out to find one that works, but she wouldn't know it, not with how good it feels. 

Leandra presses the back of her hand against her lips, stifling the whimpers and moans she's hardly aware of producing. She can hear him, though, the wet sounds his mouth makes against her, the groans choked up in his throat, and it makes the fire in the pit of her belly burn all the brighter. 

One of his hands slides off of her thigh, and his mouth pauses in its movements. She can hear the rustling of fabric, feel his sigh of relief brush over her swollen flesh. His face draws back then, and the whole flat of one hand drags up through her slick before his mouth picks up where it left off. 

A new sound joins the others, then, a sound burned into her memory from when it was _her_ hand wrapped around him. It shouldn't, but the knowledge that he is touching himself at the same time that he's pleasuring her seems to drive her closer to release than the work of his tongue does.

His movements become more erratic, his mouth sucking harder and more urgently now. The pressure between her legs builds until it feels like she's going to explode—and then she does. 

It's as though every muscle in her body clenches and releases all at once, in an instant. Her hand presses hard against her mouth, but it's not able to completely contain the cry that tears from her throat. She only prays that it doesn't carry to the hallway, to the always-sharp ears of servants who wouldn't hesitate to divulge their secret. 

Gamlen's cheek presses damp into her thigh, his lips parted and glistening as his arm works back and forth at increasing speed. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, a lock of it sliding down into his eye, and she reaches out a finger to tuck it away from his face. He jumps at her touch, a soft moan catching in his throat; she flattens her palm against his cheek, helping in the only way she can think to. 

Soon he turns his face further into her thigh, groaning into her skin. His arm stills moments later, falling slack as he relaxes against her. The heavy panting of his breath tickles her still-sensitive flesh, and she twitches as he trembles. 

Finally his eyes slide open, peering up to meet hers as an anxious sort of hope tugs at his lips. Slowly the guilt begins to creep back in, and the reassuring smile she gives him in response is ragged around the edges. He rises up on his knees, his smile widening as his eyes drop to her mouth. She stops him before he can kiss her, shrinking away from his face. 

"Gamlen, you're…you're covered in…" She can't finish; her cheeks flush hot anew. 

He smirks, closing a little of the distance. "It tastes good," he murmurs, his breath brushing her lips. "You should try it." 

Her nose wrinkles at the idea, but he presses closer before she can turn away. His mouth is sticky and slick against hers, and the smell of her own arousal fills her nostrils. The taste, however, is faint; she barely catches a hint of salt and tang mingled with the flavor of Gamlen's tongue. 

There's something temptingly filthy about it, something that sparks equal amounts of desire and shame. Leandra whimpers into her brother's mouth, tangles her fingers in his hair, and it's only the whisper of his shirt brushing against her, catching on the damp between her legs, that jolts her back into harsh reality and gives her the strength to push him away. 

With her hand pressed to his shoulder, she can feel the rapid beat of his heart thumping against her palm. He looks uncertain, perhaps afraid that she's going to retreat from him again. 

It's what she should do, but it's not what she intends to do. Still, it's difficult to fight back her guilt as she leans in to softly brush her lips over his. When she pulls back, there's a grin on his face and so much love in his eyes that it makes her ache. 

The Void will have her for this, she's almost certain.


	6. Chapter 6

Gamlen doesn't like Malcolm Hawke. 

Not that he knows a whole lot about the man, really. He's Fereldan, or claims to be, and he's a bloody mercenary, so it's a mystery how he was able to finagle his way into Father's most recent gala. 

Well, not so much of a mystery. No doubt he used his arrogant smirk and clever tongue to woo some simpering noblewoman into taking him along as her escort. The bigger mystery is why he would even want to attend a fancy Hightown event. 

Though Gamlen has his suspicions about that, too. It's not like he could miss the way the Hawke fellow's eyes gravitated toward Leandra, or the overly pompous way he strolled over and introduced himself, taking her gloved fingers in one hand and brushing a polite kiss over the lace. Didn't even acknowledge Gamlen at first, who up until that moment had been quite happily entertaining his sister with sarcastic comments muttered under his breath about the gala's many guests. 

It was hard to miss the way Leandra blushed at his compliments, or the reflexive way she moved just a step away from Gamlen, as though realizing how close they'd been standing and fearing that someone might get the wrong idea. 

Or the right one. 

If Father hadn't approached when he did, Gamlen is sure that Malcolm was going to ask Leandra to dance. He thinks she might have said yes, which only makes his dislike grow—not to mention that now he has his _father_ to thank for sparing him the uncomfortable sight of his sister wrapped up in another man's arms. 

Malcolm disappeared partway through the night, probably with one of their more inebriated—or less discerning—guests. Gamlen was relieved when he looked around only to find that cocky shit nowhere in sight. 

Then the blighter had the nerve to come and talk to Gamlen in Lowtown, of all places. Meeran tried to glare him off—he's gunning for a higher position in the Red Iron, and being seen palling around with a competing guild's members isn't likely to help his chances—but Malcolm just ignored him, strolled right up to Gamlen and started asking all kinds of impertinent questions about Leandra. 

Gamlen's fist still hurts from colliding with Malcolm's face. 

But Malcolm Hawke isn't the one with Leandra's incredible mouth wrapped around him right now, with her soft delicate hands teasing at his balls. It feels divine, hot and wet and just the right whisper of teeth, and a smug grin pulls at his lips when he thinks that Malcolm Hawke will never get to feel this. 

Of course, it's hard to think about Malcolm for too long when he's here with his sister. When they're here, nothing exists beyond these walls, beyond the two of them and the love and pleasure they share in these private moments. He looks down at Leandra, at her flushed face and fluttering eyelashes, and he feels a clench in his chest that has nothing to do with what she's doing to his cock. 

He wants to be closer. He wants to kiss her lips, to look into her eyes as he comes. He knows he can't be inside her—she won't let him and besides, in his more lucid moments, even he can understand the danger in that. Still, there might be something…

The boys in Lowtown talk a lot. Gamlen's grown up listening to them brag about their sexual exploits, and they're always more smug when they've managed to get into a Hightown girl's skirts. When it comes to doing everything with a woman _but_ claiming her virginity, Gamlen has a long list of tales to draw from—some more outlandishly untrue than others, and some infinitely more appealing.

This one, he thinks, might work. He strokes his fingers through her hair, tugging her gently off of him. She looks up at him, mouth wet and eyes questioning, and he feels that clench again. His sister is easily the most beautiful woman in Thedas. The Maker Himself would be jealous of Gamlen right now, if He cared enough about His creation enough to bother to look. 

"Beautiful," he murmurs, cupping her cheek with a sweaty palm. She drops her eyes and smiles, pretty and shy. He wants to kiss that smile, to feel it against his own lips, and so he does. 

Leandra shuffles back away from the wall to make room for him as he kneels. Then he's kissing her, and he doesn't think he's ever felt a more perfect feeling than this—the soft press of her mouth against his, the little sighs that catch in her throat and stumble past his own lips. He would be content just to do this for hours on end—and they have, once or twice—but his body has other ideas. 

He presses forward until she's lying on her back beneath him. They have a carpet here now, an only slightly tattered thing bought with his wallop winnings, so she doesn't complain about getting dirt on her dress. 

She does tense, however, when he bunches her skirts up around her waist and tugs down her smalls. Her hands press flat against his shoulders, halting his progress when he moves back to position himself between her legs. "Gamlen—"

"I won't put it in," Gamlen says quickly, curling his hands gently around her wrists. "I promise." 

Her hands fall away from his shoulders, but she still looks nervous. Gamlen is careful, oh so careful, guiding his cock as he lowers his hips down onto hers. When he's done he can feel her, hot and slick against the underside of him, pulsing against his balls. 

A long, ragged groan pulls from his throat, and for a moment all he can do is rest there, feeling her pressed all along the length of him. It would be better without clothes, with the softness of her breasts warm against his chest and her thighs wrapped around his bare hips, but it's incredible enough just to be doing this. 

Then she starts to rock against him, whimpering into the side of his neck, and he can't imagine anything better. Slick curls drag along his cock as he slides back and forth, careful to keep himself pressed firmly between their two bodies. 

Leandra's fingers bite into his shoulders, and he pushes himself up on his elbows to see her properly. Her eyes are shut tight, her lower lip caught between her teeth, tendrils of auburn hair matted to her forehead. The sight makes him clench, makes conscious thought fade into a haze of warm wet pressure, of sparks tingling along his cock and through every muscle in his body. 

"Open your eyes," he pants out, moving his hips faster. He's close, so close, and he wants to see her looking at him when it happens. 

Her eyes pop open, dark and glittering in the dim light, and that's all it takes. He spills into her skirts, too caught up in the moment to fumble around for a rag, but she's still grinding against his throbbing length with a desperation that says she's too far gone to notice. 

When he can think again Gamlen rolls off of her, replacing his cock with fingers that have learned just how to stroke her. She cries her release into his mouth, shuddering against him, and he feels that familiar swell of pride fill his chest. He's never been good at very many things, but this is something he knows he can do. 

Finally she breaks the kiss, falling back against the carpet as she tries to get her breathing under control, and Gamlen looks around for a rag.

"Sorry," he murmurs as he wipes at the mess he's made in her skirts. "I got a little carried away." 

Leandra reaches for him, and when he looks up there's a lazy smile on her lips. "It's all right. I'll worry about it later." 

She tugs at his arm, and it doesn't take more encouragement than that for him to toss the rag aside. He rests his head on her shoulder, laying his palm flat against her belly. Her arm slips around his shoulders, stroking idly at his arm. 

As good as the rest of it feels, this is his favorite part. Lying sated in each other's arms, nothing more urgent than the simple warmth and comfort shared between them. It took a bit for Leandra to be comfortable with this, to stop shrinking away from him once the act was done and her shame took over once again. Now she seems to crave it as much as he does. 

In moments like this, he can pretend that they'll never have to stop. 

"Malcolm Hawke was asking me about you," Gamlen says after a little while. The words are casual, mocking.

Her heart skips against his cheek. "Oh?"

"It was daft," Gamlen scoffs. "A blighted mercenary asking after you, like he's actually got a shot at wooing you."

Leandra is tense beneath him, her answering chuckle subdued. "Well he's too late. By now everyone in the Free Marches knows I'm promised to Guillaume."

There's something in her voice, something wistful and resigned. Gamlen swallows nervously, his fingers twitching against her stomach. "Is that all that's stopping you?"

A pause. "Not just that," Leandra replies. She laughs, but it's a bitter thing. "I suppose even if I weren't engaged I'd have a hard time getting Father to go for it." 

Something subtle but sharp twists in Gamlen's gut, pulls at his insides. "You sound disappointed," he says, praying harder than he ever has in his life that he's wrong. 

Her chest rises under his cheek as she sighs. "When I was a little girl I used to dream I'd marry for love," she says sadly. She nudges him with her hip. "I know I told you about it before—don't you remember?" 

Oh, he remembers. He's had dreams of his own, ones he hasn't dared share with her since that night in her bedroom. He's dreamed of being the one to make her smile the way she used to when she talked about marriage. But what does this have to do with Malcolm Hawke? "What, you love him after five minutes in his company?"

"No, of course not." Leandra laughs softly, presses a kiss into his hair. After a moment she shrugs. "But who knows, maybe I could. It's a better chance than Guillaume has, that's for sure." 

Gamlen wants to scream, to punch something—maybe that Hawke's face again. It gnaws at him, how easily a Fereldan piece of mercenary trash can be seen as a better prospect than him, due to one accident of birth. 

"It's silly to even think about it," Leandra says, giving his shoulders a squeeze. Her voice is strained around the edges. "Even if I were to disregard Father, how would I even go about meeting him? It's almost a month before the next gala, and I'm sure someone like him will have long moved on by then." 

The sorrow in her tone distracts Gamlen from the ache in his chest. He's never been able to bear seeing her sad. "If he forgets you that easily, he doesn't deserve you," he says fiercely, tears stinging at his eyes. 

Leandra hugs him tighter, presses her lips to his head again. "I do love you, Gamlen," she says, soft and tinged with guilt. 

Gamlen rises up on his elbow to catch her gaze. "As I love you. And always will," he swears, with all the passion in his blood. If he could only convince her of the depth of his love, perhaps they could find a way for this to work. They could both run away, find some place where no one knows who they are, where no one could judge them. 

But Leandra would never go for it. She may entertain the thought of going against Father, but she'd never go against the Maker. Not that far. No, Leandra is resigned to her fate, just as Gamlen is doomed to stand by and watch her marry another man, have his children—to watch her be miserable and be completely unable to do anything about it. 

Unless…

"I could help you." The offer spills from his lips before he can catch it, before he can really think it through. "If you wanted to meet him again. Explore your options, and all that." 

She tries to hide the way her eyes light up, a moment too late. "You don't have to do that."

Regret surges bitterly in the back of his throat, but he swallows it back. If Leandra ends up running away with Malcolm Hawke, at least one of them will be happy—and he won't be forced to watch it happen. 

"I'd do anything for you, Leandra," he says, stealing a kiss as though it's his last. "Anything to make you happy." 

Even if it breaks his heart to do it.


	7. Chapter 7

Things change.

Gamlen helps how he can, arranging to smuggle Leandra out through the cellar and making excuses if anyone notices her absence. For the first few weeks, Leandra is giddy with the blush of courtship, and Gamlen is all too happy to reap the benefits of her affectionate glee. If he doesn't think too hard about it, he can pretend she's this happy because of him. 

The happier Leandra becomes, however, the less comfortable she is with Gamlen. It's been more than a week now since she's touched him, and longer still since she allowed him a kiss. She stays out longer with Malcolm now, sometimes creeping in barely before dawn. She never talks much about what they do together; Gamlen is pretty sure that it's to spare his feelings, but it cuts deep to know that she's started keeping things from him. 

He can feel her pulling away from him, giving more of herself to Malcolm, and it drives him mad. He knew this wouldn't be pleasant, but he didn't realize how bloody much it would hurt. He's not just losing a lover, but a friend and sister as well.

Still he waits for her, brooding in the dark, no matter how long it takes. Tonight it takes longer than ever before, until the shuffling sounds of the servants rousing to begin their day echo faintly even down in their hidden nook of the cellar. 

Leandra slips through the door and turns, gasps when the light from her lamp falls across his weary features. Her free hand presses to her chest to contain her surprise. "I thought you'd have given up and gone to bed by now." 

A tight smile pulls at Gamlen's mouth. "I'd never give up on you." He stands, taking the lamp from her so she can begin to change her clothes. They've started keeping a few spare things down here, so she can change back into her nightclothes before going back inside the house. 

"You're sweet, Gamlen," she says with a smile, slipping her cloak from her shoulders. Her dress is rumpled, the laces hastily knotted together, and this close to her Gamlen can detect the unmistakable scent of sex. 

"Late night," Gamlen comments, curling his free hand into a fist to force back his jealousy. 

A blush blooms on Leandra's cheeks. "We lost track of time." 

Gamlen sets the lamp down on the table, mostly to busy himself while she begins to undress. "Been happening a lot lately," he replies, bitterness bleeding into his tone.

Leandra freezes for a moment, then continues unlacing her dress. "I suppose it has." 

Her voice is carefully neutral, but even turned away as she is Gamlen can hear the smile she's fighting. He scowls and crosses his arms, glaring at her back. "You let him fuck you yet? Or is that off limits to him, too?"

This time the tension in her shoulders is deeper, more pronounced. Her hands fall to her sides, curling into loose fists. "Gamlen, don't." 

But his control has finally worn too thin, and now that he's started, he can't stop. His pulse roars in his ears. "What, I can lick your cunt until you beg me to stop, but I can't ask if anyone else is doing the same?"

"Gamlen!" Leandra whirls on him, her dress half-unlaced and her eyes brimming with hurt. 

It galls him. Of the two of them, he's the one sacrificing—he's the one gladly helping the first woman he's ever loved to leave him. If anyone has the right to be hurt, it's him. 

"What's the matter, _Sister_?" Gamlen sneers, the empty ache in his chest filling with rage. "You've never complained when my face is buried between your legs. Surely it doesn't shock you to hear the words?"

Leandra shakes her head softly, pulls her arms around herself. "You don't have to be so vulgar about it," she says shakily, not meeting his eyes. "Maker's breath, you're the one who suggested this whole thing with Malcolm in the first place!" 

Angry tears burn at Gamlen's eyes. "I didn't know it would work," he replies with a sullen scowl. "I didn't think you'd fall in love with him." 

"Gamlen…" Leandra trails off, and when Gamlen looks up, her expression is guilty. 

"I'm right, aren't I?" Gamlen says with a bitter laugh. "You love him." 

To her credit, she doesn't try to argue or refute it. She just looks at him with those sad, sympathetic eyes, her arms twitching like she wants to reach out for him, but she's afraid. 

"Why him?" Gamlen chokes out. A tear spills down his cheek. "What's he got that I don't?"

She's silent for a moment, fixing her eyes on the ground. Finally she speaks again, her words hoarse and thick. "A different father." 

"That's not fair!" Gamlen's cheeks burn hot with a desperate sort of anger. "I would do anything for you, to be with you, but I can't change that!" 

Her arms slip around him then, her hands guiding his head to her shoulder. "I know," she murmurs, her own voice filled with tears. "You knew we would have to stop sooner or later." 

Gamlen may well know that, but he's not ready to admit it. He stays stubbornly tense in her arms. "He's a mage," he says venomously. "An apostate." 

She doesn't gasp like he expects her to, doesn't immediately disavow any feelings she might have for the man. She only tenses, her voice tight and apprehensive. "How do you know that?"

And it hits him: she knows. She knew before tonight, probably before Gamlen himself saw the Fereldan light a pipe with his fingertips yesterday in Lowtown, when he thought no one was looking.

"How do you?" Gamlen shoots back. 

There's a tense pause as she pulls away from him, averts her gaze. "He told me," she admits. "A while ago." 

"And you didn't think that might interest me? That I'm going to all this trouble to help you bring _more_ magic into the family line?" Somewhere inside, Gamlen knows it's not fair to attack her for this, but it's the only way he can think of to ease the sharp ache in his gut. Anger is more comfortable than pain, more powerful. 

Leandra's eyes blaze with anger of her own as she catches his gaze. "You've never cared about the family line before. Don't pretend to start now." 

His scowl deepens as his vision blurs with tears. "You could have told me." 

"It wasn't mine to tell." Leandra sighs and approaches him again. Her hands are warm and gentle sliding up his shoulders, cupping his face. Her thumbs brush at the moisture under his eyes. "You're my brother, Gamlen. That will never change, and I will never stop loving you." 

"Feels like you already have." Gamlen sniffs and relaxes his arms, settles his hands on his sister's waist. "It's bad enough you won't touch me or kiss me, but you won't even _talk_ to me, Leandra." 

Guilt flares in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I was only trying not to hurt you. I didn't think you'd want to hear about it." 

Gamlen shrugs. "It hardly matters, does it? I'm losing you either way."

"You'll never lose me," she promises. Her hands curl around the back of his neck, pulling his head down, and her lips press into his forehead. "Even if some things do have to change. Try to be happy for me, brother. Malcolm may not be a nobleman, but he is a _good_ man. He treats me well." 

_Not as well as I would_ , is what Gamlen wants to say. _No one could love you like I do._

"I'll kill him if he ever hurts you," is what comes out instead.

The fragile smile that springs to her lips is almost worth the pain. She wraps her arms around him again, buries her face in the crook of his shoulder. "I would expect nothing less." 

Gamlen slides his arms around to her back, holds her close for as long as he can.


	8. Chapter 8

By now, Leandra can navigate the Darktown sewers connected to her family estate with ease. It's been months since she started sneaking out to meet Malcolm, and she's lost count of how many times she's followed the same damp, dark path. 

Well, if she's honest, she's never really tried to keep count to begin with. The prospect of seeing him again tends to make everything else around her dim—an effect that's only intensified with time. 

Tonight, however, she finds the going a little more difficult than usual. Her head is buzzing with too much Orlesian champagne, and her chest is full of a warm, fluttering feeling that keeps distracting her from which turns she's supposed to take and when. 

It's early yet. Their evening was cut short—rather abruptly—when a city guardsman caught them making love on the roof of the viscount's keep. Her body still throbs with desire left unfulfilled, but even that can't sully her mood tonight. Her hand keeps straying to her chest, to the delicate gold chain and the ring that hangs heavy with promise at the end of it, and her cheeks ache with a grin that hasn't left her face since she and Malcolm parted. 

A grin that remains in place when she finally slips into the wine cellar, when she pushes open the door to her and Gamlen's little hideaway. Not even the prospect of facing the hurt in her brother's eyes can make her joy falter. 

It seems she's to be given a reprieve on that front, however; when she closes the door behind her and leans against it with a giddy sigh, she's not met with silent accusation or quietly twisting grief. Instead her brother is curled up on the pile of straw-filled sacks, fists curled up under his chin and a lock of chestnut hair falling across his closed eyelids. Her smile softens as she steps closer and kneels down to brush that lock of hair back away from his face. 

He's been trying. Maker knows it's not easy—for either of them—but he's made a concerted effort to be happy for her, or at least appear to be. To Gamlen's credit, even when things were at their worst between the two of them, he still waited up for her—never stopped making excuses for her absence or seeking out Malcolm in Lowtown to arrange visits.

She didn't think it possible, but Leandra feels her chest swell even further, overflowing with love and affection. Leaning down, she brushes a soft kiss across his forehead before pushing herself back to her feet. The sudden motion dizzies her; her balance falters a little, and she giggles quietly as she steadies herself on a nearby barrel. 

Definitely too much champagne—but a night like tonight calls for the highest of celebrations. 

Her mind wanders as she undresses, clumsy fingers fumbling with the laces of her dress. She just keeps remembering the look of love in warm brown eyes, the way Malcolm's voice shook with the weight of that one, life-altering question. She slips her dress off of her shoulders, cold air coaxing goosebumps from her bare skin, and then she's remembering the press of him on top of her, the way he covered her face and throat in kisses as he filled her over and over again. 

The throb between her legs intensifies. She pulls her sleeping shift over her head, bites her lip as the fabric brushes against stiff nipples. 

"You're back." 

Leandra jumps, whirls around to see Gamlen sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. Her grin returns in full force as she ducks her head, cheeks burning with color. "I am."

His own lips curve up automatically in response. "And happy, too." 

Crossing her arms over her chest, Leandra tentatively steps closer to him. She doesn't mean to rub it in, but she can't keep the giddy joy from her voice. "Malcolm asked me to marry him." 

Gamlen's smile falters, and hurt flickers through his eyes before he's able to school his expression. He forces his smile wider and stands to pull her into his arms. "Congratulations," he says, sincere and a little bit sad. "I know you'll be very happy together." 

She turns her face into his chest, breathes in the familiar smell of him. "It's all thanks to you, Gamlen," she says, curling her fingers in his shirt. "I know it hasn't been easy for you. I don't know how I can ever repay you for this." 

He tenses, silent, and Leandra winces inwardly at her own words. They both know that there's only one thing he wants from her, and it's the one thing she can't give him. It doesn't seem fair.

"If you're happy, I'm happy," Gamlen lies. His voice is thick, his throat bobbing against her forehead. 

She wants to reassure him, to say something to make him feel better, but what could she possibly say? Instead she slips her arms around his waist, hugging him tight to say what words cannot. 

"I'll miss you," he says after a time. He chuckles bitterly. "I don't know how I'll survive Mother and Father without you." 

"You'll do just fine," Leandra chides. "With me gone, it'll be up to you to settle down and start a family. You'll be the last hope for the Amell line."

"Please," Gamlen scoffs. His laugh resonates against her cheek. "You'll always be more of an Amell than I am—especially in their eyes." A pause. "And you're the only family I care to have." 

Leandra pulls back, enough to see his face. His eyes glisten with unshed tears as he raises a hand to cup her cheek. She doesn't realize that the gaze is becoming more intense, that it's gone on too long, until he's tilting forward to press his lips to hers. 

Her moan of surprise is muffled by the desperate pull of his mouth. Her hands fly to his shoulders to push him away, but his fingers curl in her hair, press against the back of her head to keep her close. 

"Gamlen," she murmurs into his lips, pushing more insistently. The feel of him against her is stoking the fire Malcolm didn't get a chance to quench, setting her on a dangerous path that she thought she'd left behind. 

"Please," he begs hoarsely, resting his forehead against hers. "I need to feel you—I want to have at least this memory to hold close when you're gone." 

Giving in to him isn't an act of logic by any means. All that goes through Leandra's mind, still drunk on giddiness and champagne, is that he's not asking her to stay. He's not asking for promises they both know she can't keep, or a commitment to anything beyond this shared experience. They've done it before, after all—and Maker knows she's still aching for release. 

It's unclear when Leandra decides to give in, or if there's even a defining moment at all. Her head tilts just slightly toward him, and he mirrors the movement, and before she has a chance to talk herself out of it they're kissing again. 

Gamlen's grip on her hair loosens and his clammy hands tremble against the sides of her face, his fingers brush down her throat. She twines her arms around his neck as his hands move lower, sliding down over her hips and farther back. 

She isn't aware of moving until she feels the rough stone wall against her back. One of Gamlen's hands moves purposefully down her backside, curls around the back of her thigh. He hooks her leg over his hip, angles them so that his thigh presses right between her legs. A gasp tears from her throat, sharp and loud, but Gamlen muffles it with his mouth, with teeth gently pulling and tongue slipping just past her lips. 

As Gamlen rocks into her, she can feel him growing hard against her hip. She arches forward, tries to give him the same delicious friction he's giving her, but she loses focus when he starts kissing down the side of her throat. Her fingers tangle in his hair, tugging as he pulls aside the neckline of her shift and sucks at the skin right above her collarbone. Her nails scrape along his scalp.

All the time his thigh is grinding into her, increasing the tension tightening in her belly, burning through her veins. With his free hand, Gamlen works her shift up to her waist, and she lets out a low hiss as the rough fabric of his trousers drags through the wetness between her legs. 

Leandra moves her own hands, slipping them under her brother's tunic to glide up his chest. Playing wallop has done wonders for his physique; his muscles are firm and supple beneath her fingers, twitching as her nails scrape over his nipples. 

In a tangle of arms and fabric, his tunic and her shift are worked over their heads. Gamlen groans as he presses forward again, his bare chest flush against Leandra's breasts. It's warm and incredible and so very intimate, being pressed skin to skin from the waist up. 

"Leandra," Gamlen gasps, his breath hot on her throat. His fingers bite into her hips as he rocks into her, his arousal becoming more and more evident by the second. 

When he lowers his head to take a nipple in his mouth, Leandra nearly loses her balance. Only the wall at her back and Gamlen's strength keep her standing. 

"I don't think I can stand for much longer," she chuckles giddily, clutching at his shoulders to keep steady.

Gamlen responds by grabbing her other thigh and lifting. Leandra squeals a little in surprise, wraps both legs tight around his hips as he turns to move them over to the carpet. 

Moments later, Leandra is lying on her back on the carpet. Gamlen is looking down at her, his eyes burning with intensity as his hands drag down over her torso. He pulls one nipple between his teeth and flicks at it with his tongue while his fingers twist and tug at the other. 

The throbbing between her legs is feverish now, insistent and sending pulses of hot arousal racing through her blood. A whine sounds in the back of her throat as her hips jerk up, all but begging for her brother's attention. 

He smiles into her breast and slides his hand down. The first touch of his fingers against slick flesh is like lightning against her skin, burning hot as he starts to rub little circles into her. He's careful about it, slow and steady, and she realizes with a foggy sort of indignation that he's _teasing_ her. 

"Please," Leandra begs, grinding into his hand as much as their position allows.

Gamlen kisses her thoroughly in response, his tongue sliding languidly against her own. He dips his fingers lower, the very tips pressing just inside her, and she finds herself clenching eagerly at nothing when he immediately draws them back out. 

He's never been farther than this inside of her, never crossed that unspoken line. Leandra's finding it nearly impossible to remember why the line was there in the first place, why they can't cross it now. She arches her hips more deliberately, chasing the soft pressure of his touch.

Desire blazes in his eyes, locked onto her face as his fingers enter her again—first one, then two, gradually pushing deeper until his knuckles bump against her and she can feel him curling inside. Her fingers dig into the bare skin of his shoulders as her head arches back against the carpet. 

"Shit," Gamlen swears, the word strangled in his throat. Then his fingers are gone; Leandra looks down to find him leaning back on his heels, tearing at the laces of his trousers. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as he pulls his erection free; Leandra can look at nothing else but the way it bobs and sways between his legs, how it strains upward, swollen and wanting. She's held him in her hands, tasted his release on her tongue, but that was all before—before she was with Malcolm, before she'd felt her now-fiance thick and hot inside her. 

It was easier then; she couldn't be tempted by what she'd never felt. Now all she can think about while Gamlen rids himself of trousers and smalls and boots is how that pulsing flesh would feel sliding inside of her, filling her. 

Gamlen lies back down next to her, pressing naked all along her side. She feels him hard against her hip as his fingers return to their earlier task. He thrusts into her a few times, sucking in sharp breaths between kisses as she arches against his hand. 

Then he shifts again, drawing his fingers out and settling between her legs. His fingers glisten with her arousal as he lowers his hand to circle himself, pumping once or twice before guiding the very tip to rub against the sensitive flesh between her legs. 

They're very close to crossing the one line Leandra always swore they never would. It alarms her at first, but by the time the tip of him presses fleetingly at her entrance, it feels so good and she's so aroused that she has to struggle to remember why it's such a very bad idea. 

He freezes, and she can tell from the guilt in his eyes that he's just realized what he's so close to doing. Before he can apologize, before Leandra can think too hard about it, she lifts her hips to slide hot, slick flesh against him. 

The message is clear, but at first Gamlen just gapes, eyes shining with hope and disbelief. She catches her lip between her teeth and arches again, holding his gaze until his eyes slam shut and he groans. 

When he eases into her, it's slow and careful. He's not confident like Malcolm was, but he's just as concerned for her well-being. The deeper in he gets, though, the more his features melt into a look of pure pleasure. 

Finally she has to jerk her hips again to force him deeper, faster. He takes the hint and pushes in until the flat of his pelvis is pressing flush against her own. He looks down at the place where they're joined, then back up at Leandra. 

"Maker," he gasps, mouth slack as he breathes in shallow pants. "You feel so good." 

So does he. Gamlen is different from Malcolm, obviously, but fills her all the same, rubbing against the sensitive flesh that clenches around him. Leandra is beyond words, beyond trying to rationalize this to herself; she reaches up to drag his mouth down to hers, kissing him hungrily to distract him—and herself—from asking questions that she doesn't like the answers to. 

The carpet rubs rough against her back as he starts to rock into her, but she hardly notices. Gamlen buries his face in her neck, kissing and nibbling and panting into her skin. She meets his thrusts, driving down onto him with frantic purpose. Her fingers press hard into his back, nails digging into him, and it only seems to fuel his own passion. 

"M-Maker," Leandra gasps as he hits just the right place inside of her. She feels a pang of guilt for the name she almost said instead, but it's driven out by the heady pleasure building up inside her. 

Gamlen pushes up, bracing himself with his arms as he increases the speed of his thrusts. His eyes stay locked on hers as his motions grow wilder, more frantic. Sweat slicks their bodies where they press together, mats his hair, trickles down his face. 

"Leandra, I'm—" 

He doesn't get the chance to finish before he shudders and seizes up. His expression is one of incredulous ecstasy, like he can scarcely believe what's happening or how good it feels. 

But he's done trembling against her in what feels like moments, and Leandra is still aching. Gamlen seems to realize that, because a shaky hand darts between her legs, rubbing in tight circles as he remains buried in her to the hilt. 

Then there's no thought at all, just an explosion of feeling flooding her body. Every part of her clenches, tight and wanting, then releases all at once. The only thing left when it's over is the dull, sated throb between her legs and the rapidly drying sheen of sweat on her skin. 

The guilt doesn't make its continued presence known until after, when Gamlen slides out of her and collapses against her side on the floor. It creeps back in then, in the damp press of his face to her throat and the rough slide of his fingertips idly trailing over her chest. 

In the unabashed depth of affection in his voice as he murmurs, "I love you, Leandra." 

Her heart aches—with guilt, with regret, with sorrow. She shifts her arm around his shoulders, strokes her fingertips through his hair. "Oh Gamlen, I love you too." 

He smiles into her skin, but his words are solemn and sincere. "I'm glad you were the first." 

It never occurred to Leandra before; she tenses. "You-you've never…"

Gamlen raises his head to meet her eyes. His smile is bittersweet. "I've never wanted anyone but you." 

"But you always seemed to know so much," Leandra argues with a frown. If she thought what she felt before was guilt, she's not sure what to call this. That she did this with him at all is wrong, but for his first time with a woman to be so fraught with desperation and shame is beyond the pale. She feels as though she's taken something from him, something precious that can't be given back. 

"I ask a lot of questions," he replies, smirking. When it doesn't coax a smile from her, he presses his hand to her cheek. "You don't need to feel guilty, Leandra. I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else."

"You deserve so much more." Tears prick at Leandra's eyes. "Gamlen, you deserve to be with a woman who can marry you. Who can be with you without shame, without hiding." 

Moisture begins to gather in his eyes as well, glimmering in the lamplight. "What if I don't want more?" His lips press together as emotion flushes his cheeks. "I would give up everything—all the money, the nobility, all of it. I would spend the rest of my life in hiding if only it meant I could be with you." 

Leandra flinches, suddenly all too aware of how naked they are, how intimately they're pressed. "Gamlen…" 

"Don't worry, Sister. I know." He scowls and rolls away from her, starts fumbling around for his clothes. Then he stops, glances over his shoulder at her. "But I'll always have this. He might take you away, but no one can take this memory from me." 

Guilt and pleasure have driven the champagne's buzz from her head, tempered the giddiness in her blood. Leandra watches with a growing lump in her throat as Gamlen tugs his clothes back on. 

She hasn't only betrayed her own principles tonight, the ones she's clung to for so long; she's betrayed Gamlen and the feelings she knows he harbors for her, and she's betrayed the oath she made to Malcolm just hours ago, to be with him only, to love him only. 

Malcolm doesn't know about any of this—about Gamlen's feelings or Leandra's, about the things they've done. She's terrified to tell him; surely a perversion of this magnitude is enough to turn even the most understanding and sympathetic man against her. 

All she can do now is hope, and pray; that Malcolm never has to find out, that she can move on from this night and forget what she's just done, or at least push it from her mind. Curling onto her side on the carpet, Leandra sends up a silent prayer to the Maker. 

Silence is His only response.


	9. Chapter 9

She misses Malcolm.

He's only been gone a couple of days, and they have a whole lifetime together when he returns, but she misses him all the same. In the weeks since he proposed, it's been difficult—almost unbearably so—to go through the motions of her daily life, to continue to play the dutiful noble girl with a suitably noble fiance. She's almost slipped more than once, when one noble woman or another asks her about the man she's to marry. She has to remind herself that they're talking about Guillaume, that they're referring to an imagined future that she has no intention of taking part in. 

Her stomach churns, a dull sick feeling that she's starting to grow used to. She presses her hand flat to it as a humorless chuckle passes her lips. She couldn't marry Guillaume now even if she wanted to. 

The latch on her door turns, and Leandra tenses. It's already mid-morning; Maker only knows what Mother would say to find her still abed. Her mind races with possible excuses, explanations—but there's no need. 

Her brother enters the room with a sullen pout on his lips, and his hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn't meet her eyes. "Mother sent me up to see what kept you from breakfast." 

"I wasn't feeling very hungry," Leandra offers feebly. She folds her arms over her stomach self-consciously.

Gamlen chuckles bitterly. "And here I thought you just couldn't stomach the sight of me." 

She opens her mouth to respond, then slams it shut as guilt and nausea swell in her throat. Pressing her palm to her lips, she scrambles out from under the covers and kneels before her chamberpot. Thank the Maker it's already been emptied this morning. 

"It was just a joke," Gamlen says uneasily as she empties what little remains in her stomach from last night's supper. 

"Gamlen—" Leandra attempts again, but stops short as she retches again. When she can manage to catch a breath, she waves her hand frantically at him. "Close the door." 

He does as instructed, then rushes to her side. His hand is warm as it rubs small circles into her back, his fingers gentle where the brush the hair away from her face. When she's finally finished, he presses a kiss to the side of her head before standing to fetch a glass of water from the pitcher on her nightstand. 

She takes it gratefully, taking a long pull from it to rid her mouth of the taste of bile. Gamlen's eyes bore into her as she drinks She's tried to put this off, to avoid telling him for as long as possible, but there's no getting around it now. 

"What's wrong, Sister? Are you ill?" he asks, the bitter anger in his voice giving way to curiosity and worry. 

"In a manner of speaking," Leandra quips, flashing him a tired attempt at a smile. His frown deepens, confusion tightening his brow. She sighs and pushes her chamberpot out of the way, leaning back against the side of her bed. Her hands fidget restlessly in her lap. "I'm…I'm pregnant." 

The words fall heavy between them. Leandra can't bear to look up at him, can't bear to see the shock or dismay—or worse, hope—on his face. 

"It-it was only once," Gamlen finally sputters. "That's impossible!" 

"Not impossible," Leandra counters weakly. She takes a deep breath before going on. "But I've been with Malcolm as well." 

Gamlen sighs heavily as he shifts to sit against the bed beside her. He closes lips still parted in disbelief and swallows hard. "Only once?" 

The poorly-concealed jealousy in his voice pricks at Leandra's chest. "No." 

His hands rest on his knees, working themselves into fists then relaxing over and over again as he thinks. "So it's probably his," he says with some difficulty. 

Tears sting at Leandra's eyes as all the shame and guilt and fear that she's kept bottled up threatens to break free. She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, trying to contain it, but it's a losing battle. 

"Don't you see, Gamlen? There shouldn't be any question! If there's even a chance—any chance at all—that this child is…" the word gets caught up in her throat; she swallows it back, unable to give it voice. "I should have gotten rid of it the second I found out." 

Gamlen turns quickly, his hand jumping to rest on her knee. "You can't do that!" 

"No, I can't," Leandra admits. It's so terrible that all she can do is laugh, bitter and resigned. "I can't bear to even think of it." 

Silence dominates, the weight of everything pressing in around them. After several moments Gamlen clears his throat, his hand twitching nervously against her knee. "Does he know?" 

Leandra nods weakly, a smile almost touching her lips at the way Malcolm's eyes lit up when she told him the news. "I told him before he left." 

"Left?" Gamlen tenses, anger creeping back into his voice. "Where could he possibly have to go that would be more important than being by your side—especially now?" 

She reaches up to take his hand, cradles it between her own. "Calm yourself, Brother. He left to do a job for the Grey Wardens. He says it should bring him enough coin to support us for a long time. All three of us," she adds as an afterthought, her eyes dropping toward her stomach. 

"It'll be all right, Leandra," Gamlen says awkwardly, squeezing her hand in an attempt at reassurance. "Even if it is…mine, no one will think to question Malcolm's claim. No one has to know."

It's the wrong thing to say. " _I_ have to know!" Leandra pulls her hands away from his, slides away from him. The tears that threatened before now spill freely down her cheeks as she pulls her arms tight around herself. "Maker, Gamlen, the things we've done…it's all wrong. There's something wrong with us. There has to be." 

"We love each other," he says stubbornly. She can't look at him, can't see the hurt she knows is in his eyes, but she can hear it in his voice nonetheless. "I don't see what's so wrong about that." 

"No, I didn't think you would." Leandra sighs, shakes her head sadly. He's never agreed with her about this, never understood.

He reaches up to cup her cheek, turning her face to meet his pleading eyes. "Leandra—"

"It's getting late," Leandra says quickly, flinching away from him. "I should get dressed before Mother sees me still in my nightclothes and asks questions."

Gamlen looks at her for a long moment, wounded and vulnerable, before his features harden. He draws his hand back and turns away. "I'll leave you to it, then," he says, his voice thick and hoarse. 

Leandra stays curled up on the floor, leaning against the side of her bed, until she hears the door click shut behind him. Her eyes drop down to the linen pulled tight over her knees. As much as it was an excuse to end the conversation, her words were based in truth. She's so close now to making her escape, to starting her life with Malcolm; the last thing she needs is for her parents to start getting suspicious and keep her under closer watch. 

With a heavy sigh, Leandra forces herself to her feet. It's time for another day of pretending.


	10. Chapter 10

Gamlen is the first to know of Malcolm's return. 

He's down in Lowtown, knocking back some of the Hanged Man's swill with Meeran and the boys, when Malcolm trudges in looking like he's seen a ghost. His clothes are dirty and torn, and the bandage on his left arm looks like it hasn't been changed in days. Not that Gamlen spends an awful lot of time with the mage, for obvious reasons, but the sight of a bandage of any kind on his arm is a strange sight. Gamlen figures he must have some skill at healing magic, seeing as how he never seems to have so much as a scratch. 

The worst part, though, is the haunted, desperate look in his eyes. He singles Gamlen out immediately, paying no heed to the other men at the table who scatter when they see him approach. Gamlen is still the only one who will dare to be seen talking to a member of the Red Iron's rival guild. 

"Gamlen," Malcolm says urgently, planting his hands on the table and leaning across it. "Is Leandra all right?" 

Something bitter twists in Gamlen's stomach as he thinks of the past weeks, of Leandra feigning illness more and more often to avoid both him and any suspicion about her pregnancy. "She's fine, no thanks to you." 

The turmoil in Malcolm's eyes brightens a little. "Thank the Maker," he sighs, sinking heavily into a chair. He drops his face into his hands, rubbing at his eyes. "I thought…well, I wasn't sure what they'd do. I should never have taken that job." 

Gamlen scowls. "You'd better not be getting my sister mixed up in your problems." 

Malcolm looks up and offers a tired smirk. "Right now my only problem is finding an opportunity to sweep her off of her feet and carry her away to start our life together. I was hoping you could help with that." 

He wants to say no. It would be so easy to tip off the templars, to rid himself of Malcolm Hawke once and for all. Maker knows he's been tempted—but Leandra would never forgive him. She'd only marry Guillaume instead, and grow to hate Gamlen as much as she hates the life Mother and Father have picked out for her. 

"There might be a way," Gamlen admits grudgingly. "The Empress of Orlais is arriving in Kirkwall tomorrow morning. Father's got a grand masquerade ball planned, wants to prove he can get his nose farther up her arse than any of the other nobles. It'll be busy, to say the least." 

"Sounds perfect." Malcolm smiles. "I can't wait to see her again."

The acrid flavor of whiskey isn't enough to get rid of the bitter taste in the back of Gamlen's throat. He drains his mug anyway, and summons a picture of Leandra's bright smile in his mind's eye. He's doing this for her. 

"You'll need a mask," Gamlen says. "Bloody Orlesians and their gaudy fashions. I'll see what I can scrounge up for you." 

Malcolm reaches across the table to give Gamlen's hand a solid squeeze. "Thank you, my friend. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for this." 

"Make her happy," Gamlen says thickly, not sure if he wants to cry or vomit. "That's all I want anyway." 

"That's one promise I'm sure I can keep," Malcolm replies, his smile widening. He looks down at himself and sniffs distastefully. "I should see about getting a bath. I've got a month's worth of dirt and darkspawn blood caked into my clothes. 

Before Malcolm can get very far, Gamlen's hand closes tight around his forearm, hard enough to bruise. Gamlen waits until Malcolm meets his eyes before he speaks, his voice shaking with intensity. "If you hurt her, I swear the next game of wallop I play will use your head as the ball—with your body still attached." 

Malcolm smirks, but Gamlen can see the spark of fear in those brown eyes. The mage has seen him play. "If I ever hurt her, you won't get the chance," he swears solemnly. "I'll go to the templars myself." 

Gamlen holds his eyes for a moment, searching for any hint of the man's usual flippant humor. All he finds is a solid promise. It's enough—not enough for Gamlen to be okay with this, he'll never be okay with it, but enough to convince him that it's nonetheless the right choice for Leandra. She'll be happy with Malcolm. 

With a gruff nod, Gamlen releases Malcolm's arm and flags the waitress down to order another drink.

***

Leandra is predictably thrilled when he tells her the news. It's the first time he's seen her smile in weeks—a real smile, at least, not the false one she puts on for Mother and Father.

The next day passes in a blur of preparation for the ball. Gamlen has his hands full trying to arrange Malcolm's admittance to the event. It takes some carefully placed bribes and promises of future favors, but he manages to get a false name added to the guest list and acquire a mask for the Fereldan to wear. Everything falls into place, and every moment that passes is one moment closer to losing Leandra for good. 

Her giddy smiles are the only thing keeping him going. Leandra throws herself into dress fitting and jewelry shopping, something that pleases their parents to no end; until now, she's shown a marked lack of enthusiasm for the event, and they've been rather vocally worrying over it. 

While Leandra is being dressed and decorated by the servants, Gamlen stashes her bag in their room in the cellar. She's not taking much, by necessity—choosing the life of a fugitive means traveling as light as possible. Still, Gamlen makes one small addition: a large smooth splinter of wood, taken from the first wallop mallet he ever owned. She helped him make that mallet, encouraged him—and he wants her to have something to remember him by. 

Finally it's time. Gamlen has reluctantly submitted to being dressed up himself, and the ball is about to begin. Guests are already trickling in as Leandra descends the staircase into the ballroom; even with her features masked, joy seems to radiate from her with every step. 

He captures a gloved hand in his own, bowing to bring it to his lips. When he speaks, he speaks softly; his words are for her ears only. "Sister, I don't think I've ever seen you look more beautiful." 

"Flatterer," Leandra chides, squeezing his fingers before retracting her hand. Behind her mask, her eyes travel down the length of his own body. "You don't clean up half bad yourself." 

When her gaze drifts back to his own, Gamlen feels an all-too-familiar pang in his chest. He wants to draw her into his arms, wants to waltz her around the room and kiss her breathless. 

"I beg your pardon," a familiar voice murmurs beside them. Leandra's face lights up as Gamlen's falls. The mask does nothing to disguise Malcolm's signature smirk, or the mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I was hoping the lady might do me the honor of a dance." 

Leandra takes his offered hand without a moment's hesitation, and within moments Gamlen is alone, left to wander in search of some form of booze to dull the ache in his heart.

***

They dance together for hours, something that hardly goes unnoticed—particularly by Mother and Father. Gamlen sees them muttering to one another between conversations, sees how their eyes never leave Leandra and the dancing partner who is definitely not Guillaume de Launcet.

This wasn't the plan. They were supposed to slip out as soon as possible, to sneak away when the festivities were at their height. Instead they're waltzing about like a pair of stupid teenagers in love—which, Gamlen thinks sourly to himself, is what they are. 

Just when he's about to find them, to urge them to get a move on, he realizes that he can no longer spot them on the dance floor. He looks around the room more carefully. They're definitely gone. 

Good. Perhaps they'll get away before he's forced to see them again, forced to smile when he wants to retch at the love that shines so obviously between them. 

Then he notices that he can't find Mother or Father anywhere either.

Maker's balls. Can nothing go right?

***

Gamlen races through the halls as fast as he can, ignoring the buzz of alcohol that dizzies his steps. He makes it to the front hall in time to hear his father's voice, angry and booming. It's the closes Gamlen has ever heard the man come to shouting. He watches from behind the pillar at the top of the stairs; Leandra is facing off against Mother and Father, and Malcolm is nowhere in sight.

"You'll do no such thing," Father is saying. "You'll stay here, and you'll marry Guillaume de Launcet, if I have to lock you in your room until the wedding day!" 

"I won't," Leandra says, her voice filled with tears. "You can lock me in if you want, but I won't marry him. I can't. I don't love him."

"Love?" Father scoffs. "What does any of this have to do with _love_? You'll marry Guillaume because I command you to, and it's your duty to obey your father."

"I'm sorry, Father." Leandra sniffles, wrapping her arms around herself. "I can't obey you in this."

Father sucks in a deep breath, ready to rage at her some more, but Mother rests a hand on his forearm. "It's her life," Mother says. She sounds disappointed, bitter, resigned—Gamlen's only ever heard her use that tone with him. "Let her ruin it." 

Leandra sees her opportunity and takes it, giving her parents one last apologetic look before disappearing down the hall toward the wine cellar. Father looks ready to race after her, but Mother settles a hand on his arm. 

To buy Leandra more time, Gamlen descends the stairs. "I'll go after her," he tells his parents. Father huffs unhappily, still fuming, while Mother collapses into an armchair and buries her face in her hands.

***

Gamlen catches up to Leandra in their secret place, where she's tearing ineffectively at the laces running down the back of her gown. He hesitates for a moment before stepping up behind her, nudging her fingers out of the way. She tenses.

"It'll be faster if I help," Gamlen says softly. Once she relaxes he continues to work, careful not to let his touch linger for too long. 

True to his word, he's unlaced her down to the waist in just a few moments. She holds the gown to her chest as she turns, red-rimmed eyes seeking out his own. "Could you…could you turn around?" 

Whether she doesn't trust him or herself doesn't matter; it stings the same. Still he turns, more to hide the pain from her than anything else. After a pause, he hears the rustling of fabric sliding against skin, hears the gown hit the floor with a soft thump. "Where's your fiance?" he asks, trying to distract himself from the thought of her body, bared and so close. 

"He went on ahead," Leandra replies. "He's got some kind of travel arranged for us, but he won't tell me what." 

"Always got to be some grand adventure with him, eh?" Gamlen jokes weakly. 

"Let's hope not," Leandra laughs fondly. "I won't be in any shape to do any adventuring pretty soon." 

Gamlen swallows hard against the growing lump in his throat. Leandra's hand settles warm on his shoulder, and he turns to find her dressed in the traveling clothes he smuggled into the house for her. Even dressed like one of its residents, he thinks, she'd still stand out in Lowtown. 

She smiles and pulls him into a hug, and even though it's far too soon, he's sure he can feel the swell of her belly; evidence of a child that may or may not be his. 

"Try to be happy, Gamlen," she murmurs, turning her face into the curve of his neck. "Find a wife of your own. Someone to love as the Maker intended." 

Tears sting at his eyes, and he tightens his arms around her waist. "I'll never love anyone like I love you." 

Her hand presses to the side of his cheek as she pulls away, her thumb lightly stroking his skin. "Just try," she says with a sad smile. "For me."

Gamlen's never lied to his sister before—not until now, when he nods grudgingly even though he has no intention of doing it. Her brow tightens, and he's pretty sure she's caught on—but before she can say anything further, she's cut off by the sound of light, quick footsteps approaching their hiding place. 

"Your groom has arrived," Gamlen says thickly as the door opens and Malcolm's head pops in. 

"All set?" Malcolm asks with a giddy smirk, his eyes fixed on Leandra. She nods and pulls away from Gamlen, collects her bag. She turns back at the door, giving Gamlen one last long look.

Forcing a smile onto his lips, Gamlen nods at her. "Be safe, Sister."

She returns the smile, though her eyes are also wet with tears. Then she turns, and the last he sees of his sister is her back, as she's dragged laughing toward the passage to the sewers.

***

Father is still waiting when Gamlen returns upstairs. His expression darkens—Gamlen didn't think it possible—when he sees that Gamlen is alone.

"I couldn't stop her," Gamlen lies, keeping his gaze turned to the floor.

"Bullshit. You think I don't know you had something to do with this?" Father takes a step toward Gamlen, cold eyes boring through him. "It wasn't enough to disappoint me on your own, you had to drag your sister down too?" 

Absurdly, Gamlen almost wants to laugh. _Oh, Father, if you only knew._

Father continues to rail at him, but Gamlen stops listening. It doesn't matter what Father thinks of him—that's always been a lost cause anyway. What's important is that Leandra got away, that she has a chance. 

_Be happy, Sister,_ he thinks darkly as his likely future plays out in his mind; decades more of apathy and silent, seething disapproval. _I certainly won't._


End file.
